I, Cal Lightman
by solveariddle
Summary: My name is Cal Lightman. I'm in love with my best friend, but the more I fall for her, the more I try to push her away in an endless, pathetic effort to test whether she will leave me or not.


**A/N: **This story is a little different from my other stories because it is written in first-person from Cal's point of view. It somehow felt fitting because he has a lot to tell us, mostly about his relationship with one certain woman. Timeline of the story is set several months after the season finale. Rating because Cal loves to swear.

**Disclaimer:** The idea for this story is mine. Everything else regarding LTM belongs to Fox.

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My name is Cal Lightman. _Dr._ Cal Lightman for you because we don't know each other and I'm not in the mood to make new friends tonight. And yes, this is a glass of Scotch right in front of me. It's not my first, probably not even my third. Either way, that's none of your bloody business.

People who know me are clever enough to stay away from me on that day of the year. The one day I hate most. My birthday. How am I supposed to celebrate a day that reminds me of the fact that I am older than my mother when she died? Committed suicide to be exact. Yeah, yeah, don't get me started. I am well aware that it was not my fault and all that jazz. My partner is a psychologist. She told me many times but no matter how hard she tries, it's as if my entire body resents the thought and doesn't allow it to sink in long enough so that I actually believe it. At least not when I'm sober. Maybe I will be able to believe after my seventh Scotch or so.

The only people I am able to tolerate near me on my birthday are Emily and Gillian. My daughter and my associate. Well, she's actually my best friend, but we also work together. And guess what? They're both not here. Funny, eh? There is a reason I ended up in this shabby bar after all. Emily is at college. Being her father, it makes me proud and sad at the same time. Proud for obvious reasons and sad because it means she cannot always be with me anymore. Like today. Contrary to popular belief, I need other people in my life. I'm just very picky. Gillian knows that Emily cannot be with me today, that it's her as the last choice to help me fight against my inner demons. Not that it is an actual choice if there is only one person left. But guess what she did? She sent me a text message this morning, _a bloody text message_, congratulated me and mentioned in the same breath that she wouldn't go to the office today. As if it meant nothing that she wouldn't see me today, wouldn't congratulate me in person, wouldn't hug me. As if _I_ meant nothing to her.

You could argue that it was about time, that I deserve such a comeback after the way I treated her, and you would be right. Yet, her absence causes physical pain. I am not half as strong as she is. If she had treated me the way I treated her, it would have broken me long ago; I probably would have left by now. But she stayed. Makes me wonder if I have broken her already or if it's not too late. Her absence makes one thing abundantly clear though. The deadline approaches.

As it is, alcohol is the only companion I will have tonight and I intend to drink myself into the sweetest oblivion. I never have been shy of extreme reactions, told the bartender my address to be on the safe side in case I will not be able to call a cab later. There is no plan B. Scotch. Oblivion. Somehow getting home. Alone.

Or maybe not. Maybe there is a plan B.

There is a woman at the other end of the bar. She is leering at me in a way that is probably meant to be charming but comes across as if a shark is about to attack. However, I've started to flirt back after my third drink or rather have fixed my gaze on her. Most women tend to interpret the arrogance and stoicism I often display toward strangers as profundity and she seems to be one of them. The reason I reacted to her in the first place was that if you look very, very, _very_ fleetingly at her, she bears resemblance to Gillian. And the more Scotch I drink, the more I see the resemblance. A tingle in my stomach makes itself felt and spreads to my lower regions. Did I mention I'm in love with my best friend? I am. Deeply. Madly. Hopelessly. Tomorrow I will probably deny this admission, pretend that it was the alcohol talking, but tonight I have to face my inner demons alone and this is the one with the ugliest face, taunting me that I am wasting my life (and hers in the process) because I do nothing about it. Scratch that. All I do is make things even worse. The more I fall for her, the more I try to push her away in an endless, pathetic effort to test whether she will leave me or not.

_Inability to connect_ is the correct term psychologically speaking. As a psychologist, Gillian is acquainted with symptoms and causes of the disturbance. As my friend, she is doomed to watch it happen to us without being able to do anything about it as long as I won't allow it. Did I mention that my best friend is in love with me, too? Yes, she is. And yet, _don't smother me_ is my favorite defense mechanism whenever she comes too close. _Selfish bastard_ is way too nice to describe what kind of man I am whenever I bathe in her affection and care albeit I use that phrase. I know that letting her love me the way I love her would solve everything. Then again, I wouldn't have this bloody inability to connect if I could simply do that, now would I?

Action. Reaction. Simple as that. My actions drove Gillian away, right in the arms of another man. After the Burn's disaster and Claire's death, we had been closer for a while, but then I slid back into my old self and that was that. Gillian is still there physically but emotionally... that's a different matter. I can feel her slowly disappearing as if she was a sharp picture once and is getting blurrier every day. A man bumps into me accidentally. I turn around so fast, inclined to hit him, my fist already clenched, that he recoils and walks away quickly. Yes, I am _that_ aggressive and tense. It's the approaching deadline. I hear the clock ticking wherever I am, whatever I do. I am the reason Gillian dates another man. He is most likely the reason she is not with me. I might not be in the position to choose tonight, but she was and she chose him over me. Happy Birthday.

I raise the glass to no one in particular when the woman from the end of the bar suddenly appears next to me out of thin air. Maybe my vision is a tiny bit blurry at the moment. She sits down on a barstool and introduces herself to me. I tune out when she tells me her name and what she does for a living, but she seems to be quite nice, nicer than I expected judging from her obvious come-on. However, all I can think is that I want her to stop talking. Right away. Because given my drunken state she looks a lot like Gillian now and the tingling sensation in my lower body is growing stronger and stronger. Save that hearing her talk destroys the illusion. No one's voice comes even close to Gillian's velvety-soft intonation.

It is no coincidence that I usually choose women for my one-night stands that are completely different from Gillian. There are two universes I live in and I pay close attention so that they don't overlap. Tonight is a first. Will be if I let it come to that. At least for now, I prefer not to ponder on the reasons why I am about to break my own rule, let alone the consequences. Thinking about the fact that Gillian most likely took a day off to spend it with her new lover precipitates my decision. The moment I put my arm around the woman, I know I will end up in bed with her if I focus on the similarities and ignore that Gillian's waist is narrower, her skin smoother and her perfume more discreet. This requires, though, that the woman stops talking. So I do the only logical thing to stop her – I kiss her, tongue and all; I'm way too drunk for a moderate kiss.

"I was worried that you might have no company tonight, but obviously I was wrong."

The magic works. As soon as I am kissing the woman and she has stopped talking, Gillian's voice is in my head. I could have chosen nicer words for my fantasy, but after all it's realistic. That's exactly what Gillian would say in this situation. It's getting a tad creepy when I smell Gillian's perfume. An olfactoric hallucination. I'm better than I thought.

Our kiss is long and passionate; we break it only to breathe, both smiling. Except my smile fades when I realize that I didn't smell Gillian's perfume because of my brilliant power of imagination but because she is actually here. Right behind the other woman, looking more than just a little annoyed. Instinctively, I check the surroundings, looking for her date she might have brought along. She seems to be alone though and I don't know whether I'm disappointed because it diminishes my chances for a fight I could really use now to blow off some steam or relieved because it prevents exactly that.

I practically jostle the other woman away and jump to my feet.

"Gillian."

Let me beat you to the punch; I'll voluntarily admit it another time. Yes, I am a selfish bastard, treating the other woman like that. But it's Gillian. And she came to see me after I had given up hope that she would.

The woman looks back and forth between Gillian and me, her intuition telling her the one thing we always deny – that we are more than friends and business partners. With a frustrated hiss she jumps to her feet too and walks away without wasting any more words. I guess I can consider myself lucky that she didn't slap my face. There is an odd moment when the two women are opposing each other, noticing the faint resemblance. I can't see the woman's face, but Gillian frowns and darts a glance at me over the woman's shoulder that makes me freeze. Checkmate.

Words fail me and I gesture instead, offering Gillian the barstool next to me. Of course, I should have known that Gillian wouldn't take the offer, not least because the seating surface is probably still warm thanks to the other woman's arse. A pretty nice arse, by the way. Not that it matters anymore, but thinking it feels a bit like redemption for treating her badly. Then again, thinking it makes me also realize that Gillian's backside is... better. So much for redemption. I have always known that I will end up in hell; I don't care aside from the fact that Gillian won't be there. But that's another story and another deal I will have to make with whomever one day.

I lower my outstretched arm that offered her the barstool while she is standing there, looking at me. I can't read her mood for the world. The slight anger I thought I saw in her face moments ago is gone or she hides it as well as she usually hides all her feelings from me. Random thoughts rush into my inebriated mind. Like how many of my favorite bars Gillian had to check to find me after she had figured out I wasn't home (I am quite certain she checked my house first; she has a spare key). Or if she just had sex and came to me right after she got out of bed. Automatically, I check for evidence. Disheveled hair or rumpled clothes. Then again, this is Gillian. Would there be even one single strand of hair out of place after she had sex? How I am supposed to know? On the other hand, I am sure there would be. At least after she had sex with me. Bollocks. I think she read me right now, imagining her in bed with another man. Being drunk implies the risk of forgetting to uphold your protective shield. Guilty as charged.

"Stop that." Her anger that started to retreat is back. She knows what I think, as usual. Sometimes I wonder why we even bother to talk. "This has been a mistake. I might as well leave."

No, please not that tone of voice. She is serious, already turning around.

"Gill." I grab her arm a little too hard – _you can't leave now _– and see her flinch when she turns back around to face me.

"Sorry," I say, letting go of her arm immediately.

She waves it away as if it was nothing, only another time I hurt her. Physically. Emotionally. Gillian is used to it. If I hadn't drunk that much, the realization would have sobered me in an instant.

"You're drunk," she states the obvious, "and you have company. There is no reason I should stay."

No word about her resemblance to the woman I kissed.

"There is every reason you should stay," I say, daring her to read me this time.

_Come on, Gill. You saw the other woman. You know that I was essentially kissing _you_ and not her. You know what it means. Say it._ But she doesn't. At least not yet. So a new strategy is needed.

"Fancy a drink?"

"I think you had enough for both of us."

"Not even close."

We can do that in our sleep. Is it still banter or already an argument? No matter what, I feel alive for the first time on this dreadful day. Even being unhappy with Gillian makes me happier than being with anybody else (except my daughter but that would be comparing the incomparable).

She hasn't left, but Gillian also doesn't look in the least convinced to stay. It surprises me that she continues our little dispute all the same.

"Why are you drinking?"

"Why are you here?"

It's absurd. Asking questions when we know all the answers just because it's easier this way. Safer.

"You know why I'm drinking."

I feel bad taking advantage of the fact that Gillian is the only person in the entire world who has the same abilities I have professionally _and_ knows me inside out personally, better than anybody else. Nevertheless I do it, respond by deliberately _not_ giving her an answer although it would have been the right thing to do in a situation like this, let alone politer, more respectful. But Gillian speaks Cal and I love it when she knows everything without me having to tell her verbally, love it even more when I kind of force her to use her skills because I am the only one who can do this to her. Yes, that's how it is. You know I'm not a good sort. And it is working, as always. Although my response angers her, Gillian has already figured out that I'm drinking because I felt alone, because she wasn't with me (despite pashing, aye). To be fair, it most likely was a rhetorical question in the first place. Gillian knew all that before she came over.

"And you know why I'm here. I already _told you_. I was worried about you."

Gillian justifiably emphasizes that, as opposed to me, she told me in plain words. I almost reply that it was unnecessary, that it was written all over her face when she came in, no matter how angry she was when she saw me kissing the other woman. But that would prove another time what a smug prick I can be and I think I proved that tonight in spades already. Either way, and against my better judgement, I can't help to sneer a bit. Completely inappropriate, I know, but given the amount of alcohol in my blood, I am even more reckless than usual. Good manners or boundaries have lost their meaning.

"You think that's funny?"

I can see and hear Gillian's hurt when she practically spits the words at me. That's the problem. I always seem to end up hurting her. One moment ago, it actually felt funny that she pointed out how she used her words whereas I didn't. It's our usual potato, potahto. Save that it was my drunken self making jokes at her expense. Now that her words have penetrated the gray haze of my inebriation, it's nowhere near funny anymore.

"No."

I know Gillian hears the regret in my voice, hope that she is not too angry to accept the implied apology. Suddenly I'm very tired, avoiding her piercing glance, rubbing my eyes. _Shame_. She knows the signs. Another apology. And a plea. _Please don't leave._

"Hope it doesn't get you into trouble that you're here."

What I actually want to ask is what Gillian's boyfriend, date, whatever, said when she told him she was going to see me. Provided she was with him and told him. But since I've learned my lesson and try to ease up, that'll have to do. The guilt in her eyes is my immediate answer. Both is true. Gillian may be able to hide her feelings for me from me but not her feelings for others. And believe me when I tell you that I don't think of it as a gift that I am able to read her in this respect. Sometimes it hurts like hell.

"He wasn't happy about it," she matter-of-factly admits.

Apparently she has come to the conclusion that my regret is honest and that I deserve the truth albeit she would be entitled to tell me to back off and mind my own business. But again, as much as I appreciate her reaction, I can't help but feel an inappropriate, fierce satisfaction that the fact Gillian cares about me ruined their fond harmony and the rest of their evening along with it. At least I manage not to smile this time although it wouldn't have been a sneer. It would have a been a smile of blessedness. Here she is. Gillian came to me no matter what the cost. She stayed with me no matter how badly I treated her (not only tonight; this refers to the last months, years even). She is loyal to a fault. My best friend. My...

"Happy Birthday, Cal."

Gillian steps closer, embracing me briefly (the fact that this is not one of her usual, tight hugs is supposed to tell me that she is still angry with me, at least a little). I almost forgot it is my birthday. See? That's why I need her to be around me. She makes me forget about all the bad things. Just when she wants to press a soft kiss against the corner of my mouth, our kissing trademark, I change the rules and tilt my head sideways so that she ends up kissing me on my lips instead. It's my birthday after all.

"Oh..."

She pulls away as if she burnt herself. Yes, Gill. The forbidden fruit. Like it? Because the thing is I can't stop thinking about it. How did it taste? Can you resist me? I'm not sure I will be able to resist you one second longer. I know I don't want to.

Gillian watches me narrowly. It's much more difficult to read drunk people. As the saying goes, drunk people and children always tell the truth but when a drunk doesn't say anything, it's almost impossible to read him or her because the baseline isn't adequate anymore. Gillian knows my baseline sober and drunk; that's why she was able to read me moments ago. There are so many various stages of being drunk – from tipsy to pissed – that she can't be sure though. Her gaze drops to my lips and lingers there for a moment before she makes eyes contact.

"Sorry," she then says as if she did something wrong, choosing the safe path hereby, pretending we are just friends and she didn't notice that I was about to go home with a woman that looked just like her. _Really, Gill?_

I can feel it in her movements. She wants to leave. Or perhaps she only passed the ball to me since I was the one who changed the rules. Gillian let go of me when she pulled away, but I still hold on to her forearms loosely. Does she actually believe I will let her go? Does she actually _want_ to go? Or is this only another false pretense?

Gillian unbuttoned her coat because of the warmth in the bar. I release her forearms, grab her coat, and pull her back in my arms, letting my hands slip under her coat, clasping her waist in the process. No matter how often we hugged before, this is a first. Definitely something a friend wouldn't do.

"Cal..." My name is a breath against my ear before she reacts, holding on to me. "I couldn't stand the thought that you are alone tonight," she whispers.

I hold her even tighter if that is possible and exhale deeply. I was alone. Utterly alone._ Until you came. _I want to say it, but I can't. Maybe one day, not tonight. Tonight I can't get enough of the way Gillian seems to be incapable of breathing regularly since I touched her.

"I broke up with him today," she mumbles into my shoulder, her words tickling the skin of my neck.

No further explanation. Not if she did it first thing in the morning and that's why she didn't go to work or if it happened tonight as a result of their argument after she decided to come and see me. I realize I don't want to know, don't need to know. It doesn't matter.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"You're not," she states.

I wait for her to add that neither is she, but then I realize that Gillian actually is sorry because she hurt the other man. Someone always gets hurt.

Maybe we finally stopped asking questions tonight. Maybe these are the first honest answers of many more to come.

My name is Lightman. Cal Lightman. Just skip the doctor thing. Who needs formalities? Have a drink with me instead. Just not tonight. Tonight I'm celebrating my birthday with the woman I love.

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**The end**


End file.
